Page 124 of Single Mom's Daddies
There’s a long silence.
Then Roman chuckles and shakes his head. “You were secretly Pakhan all those years…and you never really stopped, did you?”
Olenna smirks. “Why would I do that?”
37
SAFFRON
I’m so nervous,my palms are sweating through the silk lining of my coat.
I’ve faced down armed intruders. I’ve shot a man with a pink pistol. I’ve survived pregnancy alone and watched my daughter sleep in a hospital bed hooked to machines. I’ve learned to smile while working two jobs and swallowing shame just to afford diapers.
But this?
A lawyer’s office in a quiet part of Milwaukee, with a glass pitcher of cucumber water on the table and little art prints of barns on the walls?
This terrifies me.
Because this is real. This is permanent. This isn’t just surviving—this is building a future. And some deep, quiet part of me doesn’t quite believe I’m allowed to have one. Futures are for rich, healthy people. Not people like me.
The receptionist already showed me into the room. I sit in the high-backed leather chair, my hands locked together on my lap. Ivy’s trust paperwork is in a folder beside me. So is the baby’s future trust, and a blank folder labeled “guardianship and medical authority.”
I’m not alone.
Roman sits on my left, and Victor is on my right, his hand resting on my thigh, thumb tracing calming circles. Nikolai leans against the far wall, arms crossed, chewing a toothpick and pretending not to be as invested as he clearly is.
The lawyer enters—older Black woman, sharp red suit, no-nonsense energy. Ms. Pamela Graves. She offers a handshake, sits down, and opens the folder with Ivy’s name on it.
I hold my breath.
“It’s nice to meet you all,” she says. No judgment. No blinking. No raised eyebrows.
Victor squeezes my hand once, gently. I told him about how nervous I was last night, so he fucked me until I forgot my name to help me relax. It helped, but now I keep thinking everyone in the office knows what we did last night because I winced when I sat down.
Pamela turns back to the documents. “All of this looks in order. The trusts are airtight. The accounts are funded well beyond what’s necessary for basic support, and there are backup guardians named for both Ivy and the unborn child in the event of—God forbid—your incapacitation. Medical directives are in place. I’ll file them today.”
I nod, stunned silent.
“You also have access to discretionary accounts,” she adds. “Personal, educational, and investment. The family has made it clear you have complete autonomy.”
I glance at Roman, who only says, “If anything happens to us, you and the kids never go without. Ever.”
Victor adds, “And if there’s something you ever want to do—open a business, go back to school, start a foundation—we’ll fund it. No questions asked.”
My eyes sting. I blink fast, but it’s no use. “That’s too much?—”
“It’s not enough,” Nik says sharply. “You deserve the world. Let us do this for you.”
“I…I don’t even know what to say.”
“Say what’s on your mind,” Victor murmurs.
So, I do. “My parents kicked me out when I found out I was pregnant with Ivy.” My voice cracks. “They were ashamed of me—for getting pregnant, for not knowing who the father was, for being reckless. I was nineteen. I didn’t know anything. But they didn’t care.”
The memories hurt less now, but morning sickness kicks up anyway. I look down at my hands. “I had Lolita. And my grandfather. That’s it. No money. No help. Just…shame and bills.”
Roman reaches for my other hand.
